


Old Habits

by mylittleredgirl



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Epic Friendship, Gen, Trills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2185299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/pseuds/mylittleredgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s hardly the first time I’ve had to bail you out of jail.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Habits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captainraz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainraz/gifts).



> Pinch-hit for Star Trek friendshipfest! I re-read the prompt after finishing this and realized you wanted them hanging out on the station, but hopefully you can forgive some first-season Gamma Quadrant mission fic instead.

It’s 0400, they’re on the other side of the galaxy in an alien drunk tank that smells like a Bolian waste reclamation facility, they may or may not have been declared enemies of the state, and Benjamin’s pacing around like his head’s about to explode.

This mission is not, by strict Starfleet metrics, going well. Curzon would probably have called it business as usual.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “Doctor Bashir will clear things up.” 

Benjamin turns to look at her with an expression that would probably terrify her if she didn’t know him as well. (And, in fact, should probably terrify her  _because_  she knows him so well—he’s the one who punched a Virizi security guard, after all—but it’s Benjamin. Jadzia might have only known him for five months, give or take a lifetime, but she still knows how to handle him.)

He says, “Doctor  _Bashir_  doesn’t even-”

She raises an eyebrow and really, really tries not to smile. “Are you insinuating that you have less than complete confidence in the diplomatic skills of your Chief Medical Officer?”

He growls. In the language of Ben Sisko’s semi-intelligible noises, that one is meant as a warning. 

May her better judgment help her, but she thinks it’s cute. Which is probably why she eggs him on. “It’s your fault, you know. I was perfectly in control of the situation.”

“ _Dax_.” He says it like her name will be enough to stop her. He turns away from her and gets about an inch away from punching the stone wall before thinking better of it. “He tried to  _buy_  you.” 

Okay, so she  _did_  enjoy the sound of Benjamin knocking her solicitor to the ground—before the local constabulary got involved. He never invites her to box with him anymore, but she recognized a few moves that Curzon taught him. “Yes, and after we finished negotiating my price, I was fully planning to stun him with my phaser. Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s hardly the first time I’ve had to bail you out of jail for rushing to the aid of a young woman.” 

He turns to her in surprise, anger interrupted, then shakes his head as a smile breaks across his face. “Damn it, Dax.” 

She’s not sure how to tell him how  _happy_  it makes her whenever he laughs, because Curzon’s heart broke for him when Jennifer died, because Jadzia worried about him for two years before they even met, and because, in some ways, she still loves him like a son.

Benjamin sits down next to her on the one bench in their cell. They’re close enough to bump elbows. “Except that time,” he points out, “you were on the outside instead of Doctor Bashir.”

She’s laughing now, too. “Oh, Benjamin, you should have seen you when the Ruji guard let you out. How many days did it take to scrub all that paint off?”

He growls again, but this one’s good natured. The anger in his face is gone, replaced by something closer to sadness. “Damn,” he says again. 

She lets him sit quietly for a moment, until the retching in the next cell over starts to get to her. “What?”

He has a depth of feeling to him that first drew Curzon’s attention, something that said this young ensign was special and worthy of all the wisdom about life that Curzon had to offer. She sees that in his face now, when he says, “Things really are different now, aren’t they?” 

It’s strange that he would say that now, since being at the center of a bar brawl a few hours ago made her feel more like Curzon than she has since she changed hosts. “I’m different,” she says. “But so are you.” 

He raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe you aren’t  _that_  different.” 

He chuckles. “I don’t know, Old Man. I got carried away back there. Maybe I just wanted to see if it was still like old times.”

She doesn’t believe that entirely—Benjamin’s temper doesn’t allow for much complex thought once his dander is up—but he did  _look_  at her before he threw the first punch. Like he was asking for permission, even though he doesn’t need to anymore.

And maybe, without thinking, she gave it to him. To see if it was still like old times.

“Your left jab has improved,” she says. “I noticed you’re better at keeping your hands up, too. I used to always be able to sneak in right here-” She pokes her hand toward his right jaw, just under his ear. He intercepts her before she makes contact. She admits, “I miss it too.”

“I take it Jadzia has never been in jail before?”

She laughs, because so much of her is still that young woman who anxiously researched Earth laws for weeks before she shipped off to Starfleet Academy, just in case. Who was willing to die last month for a crime Curzon hadn’t even committed, because he waded into the dark gray of a code of ethics that Jadzia has always seen as black and white. Sometimes it’s hard to hear herself over all the other voices in her head. “No. No, this is her first time. You should be honored.” 

“Oh, I am.”

They sit in companionable silence for a while. She takes the time to watch the regular energy pulses ripple across the force field barring their escape. If she could trigger a feedback pulse, that might knock out any localized dispersal field that might be blocking the Ganges' sensors…

“Doctor Bashir will bail us out,” Benjamin says, like he can hear her thinking about a jailbreak.

She is often Julian’s biggest defender, having gone through the awkward young-hotshot phase more times than her colleagues, but: “It doesn’t hurt to have a backup plan.”

She feels something metal poke her arm, and when she looks down, he opens his hand to show her the comm badge he must have palmed when the guards pulled off their weapons and accessories. They got hers, and her hair clip; they even took both of her pips. 

She beams at him, the student who surpassed the master. “Someone taught you well,” she says. 

He grins back. “Just like old times.”


End file.
